


Watching Over You

by Chaoswolf12



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Other, Rare Pair, Spark Sexual Interfacing, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:46:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8716225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaoswolf12/pseuds/Chaoswolf12
Summary: Why does Red Alert trust Jazz? This is why.
Alternately, a bit of a strip tease and some fluffy sexual healing.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuzipenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/gifts).



> for fuzipenguin   
> Because your prompt writing nights inspired me, and one prompt in particular spawned this plot bunny baby and it didn't stop pestering me until I wrote it. ^_^  
> The prompt was 'tease/strip tease', btw, in case you wondered.

~*~

Red Alert watched.

 

It was what he did.

 

He was good at it and he enjoyed it. Oh, the others thought that it was all paranoia, but there was a satisfaction in knowing where everyone and everything was. In knowing he was fulfilling a needed role, and doing his job, his function. Some would be uncomfortable to hear that, seeing as how and why the war started, but there was a comfort in knowing that one's function was useful and needed.

 

But more than that, Red Alert needed to know everyone was safe, that they were still there. It would surprise the other Autobots to hear, but Red Alert was very fond of them all. He cared. He wouldn't work so hard to keep them safe if he didn't care. Okay, so maybe he didn't socialize much, and perhaps it was nearly impossible to drag him out of the Security Room, but that didn't mean he didn't know the crew. If anything he knew some of them better even than their friends, because he saw what they did when they were alone.

 

Because he watched everything.

 

True, the paranoia did overcome him sometimes. There were some crew members that just hit certain protocols and tripped his suspicions into overdrive. But if they would just stop _doing_ those things he'd be fine! For example- If Sideswipe would just stop messing with his cameras, creeping about, and doing other suspicious things for his pranks. If Smokescreen would quit finding the blind spots and camera-less areas, and meeting up with mechs secretly, trying to set up illegal bets and gambling rings. And if Mirage would just learn to _not_ use his disruptor on the Ark, so that Red Alert could _see_ him, and not be surprised by him disappearing and then randomly popping up!...

 

But there were certain mechs of whom Red Alert was never suspicious, that he _trusted_ and never accused of being a spy or a traitor. Optimus, of course, and Ratchet. Ironhide and Prowl. Wheeljack usually made the list, but every once in a while his penchant for blowing himself and his lab up made Red Alert's coding try to label him a saboteur.

 

Which made it ironic that the other mech on the 'always trusted' list- Jazz- actually _was_ a saboteur and a spy.

 

Red Alert had been asked before- usually by a disgruntled crewmate while they were being interrogated about some wrong doing (Sideswipe)- why he never turned his paranoia on the command crew. Simple answer was that he _knew_ them. They were all close enough and worked together often enough that it would be near impossible for an infiltrator to take someone's place. Eons together meant Red Alert knew every quirk and habit and twitch of the command crew.

 

'Even Jazz?' , he'd been asked before. 'Even though Jazz goes off spying and comes back, you never worry he's been switched out or reprogrammed or something?' To which Red Alert had snorted and said that no one could ever supplant Jazz because the mech was unique. Impossible to imitate and no counterfeit would ever be able to match him. They laughed and agreed, saying that Jazz's personality certainly was unique, and wandered off content with his answer.

 

Which was all true, but not precisely what Red Alert had meant.

~*~

 

It was this he meant-

He and Jazz, alone together, in his quarters. Red Alert sitting on the berth while Jazz stands in front of him, lit by bright lamps turned towards him. (Jazz once said it felt like being on a stage. When Red asked if that bothered him, Jazz had replied, “Nah mech, I don' mind performin' as long as it's jus' for you.” and gave him a saucy grin. But Red Alert had remembered that Jazz was often weary of performing, both for the enemy and the crew, and now only used the lights when _needed_. For this ritual of theirs.)

 

As he watches, Jazz reaches with one hand towards his own arm. His armor gleams brightly in the lamps, though there was still evidence of damage newly repaired. Ratchet has only just released him from medibay, patched up and healed from his latest excursion. Delayed only by a trip through the washracks, he came straight here. (Jazz always hits the washracks before he comes here for this- it helps to wash away what he'd seen and done, cleared his mind so he could be in the here and now, he'd said when Red asked why.)

 

Deftly, carefully, unhurriedly Jazz unlatches the armor on his arm, and sets it on the table behind him placed there for that purpose. Jazz hums while he does this. Slowly the music will get louder as he goes, his speakers picking up the beat. But for now, it's just the quiet, pleasant humming as he works on his arms. First the left arm then the right, armor removed until he is bare up to his shoulders. He turns his bared arms in the lights, protoform sleek and scarred, while Red Alert traces over every line with bright optics.

 

Next Jazz bends down and unfastens the plating over his right leg, ped first then thigh plates. The complicated mechanics of his ankle and protoform are exposed, and his tire looks naked without the wheel-well to protect it. The whole structure looks so delicate without the blocky armor over it. Red Alert makes a noise, surprised and definitely concerned, as Jazz moves to the left leg and it is exposed. The light has caught on a shiny new weld, a new scar on the battered protoform.

 

“Don't worry,” Jazz says with wry grin, “Ratchet's already patched an' welded me up good. An' I'll tell ya all about how I got it- an' all the others- when we get to that.”

 

Red Alert frowns, but nods, and Jazz continues. Thigh armor is removed, and more weld marks are revealed. Red Alert leans forward on the berth, his hands clenched on the edge of it. Jazz looks up for a moment and gives him a smile, then turns to set all the armor in a neat pile on the table. As he turns, Red Alert can see that the welding curves around to the back of his leg. His hands twitch on the berth again, and Jazz gives him a knowing look over his shoulder.

 

Still turned away, Jazz reaches up and unclasps his helm. The thick protective plate is lifted off, and Jazz shudders as delicate, sensitive components are revealed. Under his helm, where the blocky horns are situated, Jazz has delicate pointed horns. Similar in appearance to what Bumblebee or Cliffjumper has, but smaller, thinner. More sensitive. Delicate. Red Alert knows that using a helm designed more like his own and Sideswipe's is just another way to protect the fragile and sensitive appendages. After all, Red Alert does the same thing, though his own helm's armor is thinner. And he knows that the shudder is because Jazz can now finally _hear_ , his audials no longer being muffled- and yet at the same time he's almost overwhelmed, bombarded by the noise of their systems, the Ark, life, everything. He knows, he knows -after all, it is the same for Red Alert, whose audials and systems are also made for surveillance and listening.

 

Now the music that Jazz has been humming is taken over by his speakers, soft and low.

(Mechs on the Ark think that Jazz blasts his music all the time. He doesn't. He _can't_. When he's alone or with Red Alert, the music barely reaches above the sounds of their voices, because that is all their audials can stand, when unshielded and at normal levels. During the fabled parties of the Ark, Jazz walks around with his audial systems nearly turned off, and relies on lip reading and interpreting fields to converse, or engages comms if needed. If Red is on monitors he will help Jazz, by sending him conversational transcripts in real time. He can filter out the too-loud music with his surveillance equipment after all.)

 

With the music playing Jazz sways, still turned away from Red Alert. It's awkward to reach behind and undo the latches to his back plates, but Jazz manages to do it with grace. And seduction. A little roll of his hips helps to loosen one catch, and another hip roll turns into a full body wave that ends with him shrugging out of his armor. Red Alert's vents hitch as Jazz bends over to set the heavy armor piece on the table. There are more new welds, one in a spot disturbingly close to a vulnerable system, but it is the supple bend of Jazz's protoform and the stretch of his cables that catches Red's vents.

 

Jazz turns, with a cheeky grin. The blocky form of his chest armor seems almost ill-fitting and out of place with so much of his protoform exposed. Reaching up to undo claps, it is lifted away piece by piece. Underneath, his chest is bulkier than one would expect with the armor gone, not as flat or thin as his frame might suggest. Strong cables and thick protoform cover his internals. Jazz has always been stronger than expected for his size and weight class, and without the armor to disguise it the reason is obvious, easily seen in the structures normally hidden. A weld mark on the front matches the mark on his back, Red Alert notes and he frowns. A through- and- through.

 

“Don' frown so, ma Red,” Jazz chuckles. “We're jus' getting' to the good part.”

 

Red Alert knows that Jazz knows why he is frowning, but lets his lips slide up into a smile. After all, Jazz is correct. This was the good part, and it only gets better.

 

Hands pluck over the last bit of armor left- Jazz's hip plates. As they come away, the music gets subtly louder as the hidden speakers are revealed. The mechanisms that enabled Jazz to transform them, to hide and reveal them, create interesting ridges and vulnerable creases in his otherwise smooth hips, and Red Alert's optics brighten as they gaze over them. (He remembered well how sensitive those areas were and there were some very fun memory files attached to the last time he got to play with them.) Jazz grins, likely following where Red's thoughts had gone, and teasingly traces his fingers over the seams and cracks.

 

Red Alert groans and leans forward, but keeps his tight grip on the side of the berth. He isn't allowed to touch, not yet. And there is still one last piece to go before they move on to the next step in their dance.

 

Dragging his hands up his torso, Jazz dances his fingers up his body. Red Alert's optics follow them, up and up, past swaying hips and slender waist, over broad chest and sliding up over strong neck cables, to Jazz's face. Those deft fingers trace the edges of his visor, then press against the connector points. Red Alert holds his ventilation in anticipation of the quiet tiny click, and only resumes cycling air as Jazz's hands come down, visor held in them. Jazz squints his optics as they are uncovered. They are brighter than one would expect, and lighter in color as well. Still blue but edging on white near the center where their inner light spills from the pupils. It is a sign of a mech whose optics are more suited to dim light, to dark places, nocturnal, subterranean. Or it is a sign of damage severe enough that control of the focusing mechanisms in the optic no longer functions properly.

 

Red Alert happens to know that in Jazz's case it is a bit of both. And he feels a pang in his spark- of gratitude for Jazz's trust and of guilt that his need for the light probably hurts Jazz's optics in the initial moments after they are uncovered- every time he sees them. Because that visor is both protection and aid. Protection against too much light and against further damage, and aid in focusing now that the damage makes fine details hard to see, at least in bright, normal light levels. The implicit trust in revealing such a vulnerability and the generousness of allowing Red Alert to have his spotlights shining... it strikes Red Alert all over again and leaves his spark pulsing hard.

 

Jazz blinks against the glare of the lamps, then spreads his arms and makes a slow, graceful complete turn around. Red Alert watches the light glide over his form- both because it is beautiful and because he is cataloging, comparing, and updating all the marks and scars and unique colorations. It is both inventory and verification- a gesture to assuage Red Alert's ever present paranoia and an assurance that the mech in front of him is whole and hale, at least mostly.

 

Finally, Jazz steps out of the circle of lights and towards the berth. He slips the visor into his subspace, and for a klik Red Alert wants to make him empty out his subspace before he can get any closer, but pushes down that overly paranoid thought. Jazz, in all his sleek, powerful, naked self, is within arm's reach, and Red Alert can finally _finally_ release the berth and touch him. Jazz pulls him up, into a kiss. Somewhere in the back of Red Alert's processor a suspicious little subroutine runs, chemosensors analyzing the taste and chemical makeup of the kiss, verifying it's Jazz. But mostly Red Alert just enjoys it, cooling fans finally kicking on to expel some of the heat in his systems while he runs his hands over bared arms and torso.

 

Jazz chuckles into the kiss, and in a dance-like move, turns them about. One last kiss, and Jazz pushes Red Alert back a step. He sits down, and now their positions are reversed- Jazz on the berth and Red Alert in the spotlight.

 

“Go on,” Jazz says with a smirk, “ya gotta get undressed too.”

 

Red Alert pouts for a moment, but gets to work, removing his own armor methodically. Unlike the slow, teasing removal that Jazz put on, Red perfunctorily, almost hastily unarmors. The strip tease was something they both liked, but tonight he is too impatient. He does have to take a moment when he pulls his helm plate off, shuddering at the inundation of sounds- his audials are the same pointed horns as Jazz, only slightly larger, and even more sensitive. He focuses on Jazz, on the sound of his vents and his sparkpulse, until he can tune out and ignore the rest of the world. But in short order, all of his armor is set aside and he steps forward again to rejoin Jazz.

 

Jazz just grins, grabs his arm, and pulls Red down onto the berth with him, causing Red Alert to yelp at the sudden move. Rolling them so that he ends up on top, Jazz swoops down and kisses Red Alert once again. Red Alert moans into this kiss, as Jazz slowly lowers himself down on to Red. Their protoforms brush and slide against one another, exposed sensors and sensitive metals touching from helm to peds. They run their hands over each other, dipping into seams and joints, playing with the wires and sensors there. Every touch trails arousal, as it stirs and exchanges the rising charge along their bodies.

 

Vents cycling fast, trying to pull in cool air as the kiss continues, Red Alert pushes so he can roll them over until Jazz is beneath him. Pulling away reluctantly, he pants, pulling in additional air through his oral vents. Looking down into Jazz's optics he traces a loving finger under one, watching as the irising mechanisms in them struggle to focus as Jazz looks back at him. Lightly trailing his hand over Jazz's face, he brushes his nose, his mouth, along the line of his jaw and then back up over his helm to his audial. The lightest of touches there, sliding up the length of it, and Jazz cries out. Red Alert lingers a moment, drawing a few more delicate caresses from the base of the audial to the dainty tip, until Jazz is moaning and clutching at him. Then he moves on.

 

Down he travels, sitting up to better look and reach. Brushed nickle protometal, strong steel colored cables, here and there bright silver from a weld or newer scar, and darker marks, even a bit of rippling and warping in spots, from heat damage and blaster scores. Red Alert takes his time, touches and kisses every mark, inspects every inch of the frame beneath him. It leaves Jazz panting and moaning, crying out when a particularly sensitive seam is touched. Overload crackles over him twice before Red Alert is done- the first hits him when Red reaches his hips to play with the vulnerable seams and the speakers there (still playing music softly though it skips a bit in the wash of expelled charge), and the second when Red gets to his left leg and lifts it to trace his lips over the welds and lick his exposed ankle joint.

 

Red Alert places one last tender kiss on Jazz's ankle and sets his leg down while the mech pants. Crawling back up the berth, he lays down next to Jazz and holds him. Red Alert snuggles against Jazz until he cools down a bit. Red's own fans are still going full bore, and his systems are full of charge, but his turn will come in a moment.

 

When Jazz can do more than dazedly stare at the ceiling, he rolls into Red's embrace. Teasing hands slide and tap down Red Alert's form until they trace circles over the cover for the interface cables in Red's chest. Red Alert lets out a shaky sigh and nods eagerly, his helm brushing against Jazz's. Jazz thumbs the cover open and carefully unspools the cable within. Opening his own interface hatch, Jazz plugs Red's cable into the port there and shivers as the first rush of charge comes over. Quickly Jazz extends his own cable and clicks it into place in Red's port. They groan as the connection intensifies. After their systems sync, Jazz sends a gentle inquiry- more cables? When Red Alert sends back eager confirmation, Jazz caresses Red with affection as his hands unerringly find and connect all their cables.

 

Soon they are draped in a web of wires, connected at neck and chest and hip in various places. Each cable deepens the connection, the exchange of sensations, and they cling to one another, systems synced and humming together. What one feels, the other experiences, the charge in one mech feeds the charge in the other. But that is only the physical. Red Alert pings an inquiry of his own, and Jazz accepts. Together they drop their firewalls, and Red Alert dives into all that is Jazz.

 

The rush of code sliding by plus borrowed sensation sends Red Alert into his first overload. He clutches Jazz tighter and keens, even as his processor is already delving deeper, plucking and searching through Jazz's mind. He checks memory files and firewalls, checks coding and updates, looking for any breaches or suspicious changes. He also sets his processors to sorting out what is mission code and the accompanying files full of surveillance and secrets, helping Jazz defrag it and neatly tuck it away into the Spec Op's commander's secured processor banks, safely behind firewalls. He works until he's sure Jazz is running on normal, everyday parameters again.

 

Then Red goes through the memories of how each injury was acquired and scolds Jazz lightly about them, even as he updates his own internal file on Jazz's health and frame. (Later he will help Prowl adjust the schedule to give Jazz time to rest, and use his security system to keep tabs on him, making sure Jazz actually does rest and doesn't get overwhelmed in the bustle of the Ark as he readjusts to home life.) All the while Jazz hums to the soft music and strokes Red's body, making him shudder with rising charge again.

 

When Red Alert is sure there are no holes or damage or malware, he relaxes and gives himself over to the connection. Jazz surges across the connection, and wraps himself up in Red Alert, in the security and surety of Red's protection and approval. Together they cycle the charge higher, exchanging caresses and kisses while passing packets of charged code back and forth until they clasp each other, crying out in simultaneous overload.

 

Jazz recovers first, and pets Red's helm softly until he can focus again. Red looks up at Jazz, then snuggles in closer, and tucks his head under Jazz's, listening to their systems wind down from overload, pinging as they cool off the heated exertion. Somewhere in that overload, Jazz's music cut off, and in the quiet Red Alert can immerse himself in the sounds of _them_.

 

=... Does it bother you, that I need this?= Red Alert asks over the connection after nearly a breem of cuddling, not looking at Jazz's face as he traces circles on the silvery chest he's laying his head on. =That I can't really _trust_ that it is you until we follow this little ritual of mine? That I -I'm so paranoid?=

 

Jazz huffs a quiet chuckle, and squeezes Red Alert tighter. =No,= he replies. =It doesn't bother me. I... in a way I think it helps me, too.=

 

=It does?= Red Alert asks, lifting his head to look at Jazz. =How?=

 

=You know what I do, out there,= Jazz says, looking into Red's optics. =You know how I have to do things and be something I don't like. That I become whatever I need to get the job done. I change whatever I have to, to do what's needed. Sometimes I'm not sure, by the time I get home, if there's really enough of myself left to be _me_ anymore. I don't trust myself. But you always look and find me. You always sort things out until I know I'm _safe_ and worthy of being trusted again. With you, I know I'm me, and that I'm home again. I need this ritual as much as you do, Red Alert.= He finishes with another squeeze, pressing his forehelm against Red's.

 

Red Alert holds him back just as tightly and lets out the vent he'd been holding. =Thank you. I'm glad that it helps you, that you aren't merely humoring me. That I am not hurting you with my overly cautious, paranoid ways.=

 

“Oh, ma Red,” Jazz says aloud, nuzzling the side of Red's face, “You may be paranoid, but ya always got the best in mind f'r everyone. We know ya love us.”

 

“Indeed,” Red Alert agrees, nuzzling back. “Though some more than others.”

 

Jazz laughs and says “I know what ya mean!”

 

Red Alert grins at Jazz's happy face, then looks down and bites his lip. He looks at his fingers, where they are tracing up and down over the center seam of Jazz's chest. He opens his mouth to say something, pauses, then tries again. “Jazz, could we... I mean, if you like we can... I was wondering if perhaps-” he cuts off with a huff, frustrated at himself that he can't just say it, and instead resorts to using their still-open interface connection. =I want to share my spark with you Jazz, if you are willing.=

 

Jazz startles and looks at Red Alert. He hooks a finger under Red's chin and nudges his face up until he can see into his optics. =You want to merge with me?= he asks. At Red Alert's nod, he smiles and brushes his thumb over Red's bottom lip. =I'm honored, Red Alert. Yes, I'll share sparks with you.=

 

They don't hurry, but neither do they wait, protoform shifting aside to reveal spark chambers. Already pressed so close together, they can feel the pulse of one another, the reaching energy, even through the closed crystals. Sparklight spills between them, and Red Alert looks down, enraptured by the flickering blue light. He stares long enough that Jazz sends a ping, an 'are you sure/ are you ready?' query. Shaking out of his daze, Red Alert pings back 'yes'.

 

The final layer between them falls away as they open the crystal covers, and their sparks can finally reach one another. Red Alert cries out, echoed by Jazz, and pulls him closer. Their chests are pushed flush, arms clutching tight. Jazz sends a pulse, and Red Alert moans, sending an answering pulse. Their sparks mingle and dance together, sharing emotions and flickers of memory and thoughts, sharing the essence of themselves. It is a pleasure, an ecstasy like no other, and with every pulse they come closer, become more entwined. Affection, trust, a growing _love_ , flowed and eddied in their sparks, until they couldn't contain it any longer, and overload takes them both.

 

Red Alert comes to with Jazz petting and crooning at him. Their sparks are safely covered again, protoforms closed and in their usual configuration. Red Alert sighs contentedly and rests in Jazz's arms. Jazz smiles at the peaceful, happy, lazy buzz from Red's side of the interface, and lets the cables tangled between them remain connected for a few breem longer. It's rare to feel Red so settled, after all, and it makes Jazz's spark warm. But eventually he reaches for them and carefully disconnects the cables one by one, spooling them back into their housings. Red Alert makes a tiny moue, venting a little huff of disappointment, but doesn't stop him. He was enjoying the way their systems synced, the way their processors threaded together, but every interface had to end eventually.

 

“I s'pose I should get ma armor back on an' head to ma quarters,” Jazz says, though he makes no move to leave yet.

 

“Stay,” Red Alert says, running a hand down Jazz's arm. He reaches Jazz's hand and laces their fingers together.

 

“Alrigh', ma Red,” Jazz says and settles more fully onto the berth. Jazz falls into recharge shortly after that but Red Alert stays awake a bit longer, just watching him, before slipping into recharge himself.

 

After all, Red Alert likes to watch, especially over those he loves.

 

~*~


End file.
